USA > Georgia > Floyd County > Rome > A history of Rome and Floyd County, State of Georgia, United States of America; including numerous incidents of more than local interest, 1540-1922, Volume I > Part 70
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O, beautiful river, The moonbeams aquiver, Lie palpitant now on thy bosom so fair, And through the tall rushes, And dew-scented bushes Dim mist-shapes arise like wraiths on the air.
O, silver, still river, Flowing onward forever, Breathing heavenly harmonies out on the night, Each musical number Awakes my soul-slumber,
To quick revelation of Heaven and Light.
O, mystical river, When soul-life shall sever, From flesh of the Adam-Dream, seraphs divine, From sphere far-celestial, May come sphere terrestrial Just to resolve my glad spirit with thine!
THE HUCKLEBERRY PICNIC.
(An old Virginia animal song, as played on the guitar and sung by E. L. Wright, headmaster of Darlington School, to the delight of many young Romans.)
I looked down the river 'bout the crack of day, I heard a big commotion 'bout a mile away; The critters from the fields and the forests had come, All had collected for to have a little fun ; 'Twas the badger and the bear, the fox and the hare,
The otter and the coon, the mink and baboon. The 'possum and the kangaroo, the wolf and weasel, too; The monkey and the owl were a-settin' up a howl!
Chorus :
"Come jine the huckleberry picnic, 'Tis gwine to take place today; I'm on the committee for to 'vite you all, But I ain't got long to stay !"
'Long about noon the table was set .- They brought out to eat everything they could get; The badger and the bear took hash Francaise,
*Whispering Water.
DR Mitchell
564
A HISTORY OF ROME AND FLOYD COUNTY
THE STEAMER "CHEROKEE" "MAKING KNOTS."
This picture was taken as the First Methodist Church Sunday School members were on their annual picnic down the Coosa in June, 1921. Behind the speedy "Cherokee" sputtered the Boy Scout Motor Boat, which gave the "big wagon" a hot race coming back to Rome, and kicked some salty spray on her noble bow.
The fox and the hare took consomme; The otter and the coon took simmons a-la-frost,
The mink and baboon took fish cream sauce, The mule had a fit and the ground- hog died,
And all were chuck full when the hyena cried :
Chorus
Buffalo and hogs hollered "Right hand across !"
Jenny and Jack hollered "Left hand back!"
It looked sorter strange in the ladies' change
To see the nanny goat swapping places with the shoat;
They tried to "grand change" over and again,
But a little cur pup kep' a-mixin' 'em up,
'Bout to be a fight in the "ladies to the right,"
When the cats began to bawl, "Prome- nade all!"
Chorus
'Long about night the varmints took sick,
Sent for the old snake doctor mighty quick,
Like the railroad cars his wings did hum; The varmints all hollered, "Yon he come !"
Started for to open the head of the hoss,
When the varmints all hollered, "Hold on, Boss !
It ain't no use to do like dat.
Dat ain't de place whar de misery's at!"
Chorus
Tied the tail of the monkey with a rope, Looked down his throat with a micro- scope ;
You just ought to seen that monkey's tail-
'Clare 'fore goodness it turned right pale ! Rubbed it and he rubbed it, but 'twant no use,
So he greased it all over with pokeberry juice,
When that ugly monkey up and died, He turned right over and softly sighed :
Chorus
Animals went down the river for to bathe,
Just couldn't make the baboon behave; When it came time to look for a towel, They had to wipe off on the little screech owl.
565
MISCELLANEOUS-POETRY
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-- 433
SAM P. JONES AND HIS ROME SANCTUARIES.
The great evangelist came to Rome about: 1875 from the Van Wert (Polk County) cir- cuit, and spent two stormy years, in which he had Trinity Methodist church (at the bot- tom, then known as the Second) and two churches in the country. He built the original church, part of which is now a residence next to the Second Christian on W. Fifth Avenue. The other house, at 733 Avenue A, was his home.
The screech owl screeched and the bull- frog hopped, The tadpole wiggled and the terrapin flopped, The monkey he then run out and hid, The elephant spied him and said, "O, you kid!"
THE SWEETNESS OF SORROW. By Col. B. F. Sawyer. (From The Rome Georgian, May 28, 1898.)
Cheer up, cheer up, thou fainting heart, Put off thy sad repining;
The darkest cloud that ever lowered Must have its silver lining!
And every bitter has its sweet,- The bitterest the sweetest,- For deepest sorrows always make Their after-joys completest.
The heavy load, the bitter cup, Are oft in memory given;
Even death itself is but the gate That opens up to Heaven.
Then let us gather faith and hope From life's unfailing crosses, Nor idly hope to reap a gain Without its price of losses!
A FRIEND. By Alfred Arnold.
A friend is one who's lived a while And learned a world of stuff; Who smiles a kind of patient smile Though things be smooth or rough.
A friend is one who's tried you out; Who's heard your every plan; Knows all your weakness and your doubt. And says, "I like that man."
A friend is one who knows your faults, Yet doesn't hide his own;
Who'd rather walk with one who halts Than plod along alone.
566
A HISTORY OF ROME AND FLOYD COUNTY
BALLAD OF FERDINAND DeSOTO By George Magruder Battey, Jr. Decorations by Frank L. Stanton, Jr.
FRANK 1 STANTON JA.
When Ferdinand DeSoto went to Rome in search of gold, He never thought to make a name like pirate chiefs of old, But rather hoped to gather pelf from far-off hills and near, And divvy with his hard-up king-he was no profiteer!
No doubt he would have got away in handsome style with this Except he thought that fire and sword were not so far amiss And Gent of Elvas, taking notes, not heard all Ferdie said And writ the story out in Spain long after Ferd was dead.
Now, harking back a span or so, we find Ferd in Peru, A-fighting for the native spoils-in Nicaragua, too- So when he took himself back home, a pretty maiden there Thought Ferdie was the bravest man in Spain or anywhere.
Yet Isabella's dad was rich and Ferdie's dad was poor; The king took Ferdie's share of gold and loudly called for more. Here Isabella proved her worth-she married Ferdinand, Forsook her dad and all his wealth for Ferdie's horny hand.
Away they went in rocking ships, stopped on a lonely isle, Proceeded on their honeymoon, the journey seemed a mile- 'Till Cuba's pearly shore loomed up, Havana on the bow, And Ferd reviewed his motley crew from soldier down to sow.
In town they rented cozy flat that gave them latitude For all the charms of wedded life, their souls with love imbued; But Ferdinand was wise enough to know it couldn't last, And so he piped to Isabelle that time for love was past.
"Oh, Ferdinand, you cannot go and leave me lonely here With perfect strangers, out of funds!" she wailed into his ear. But Ferdinand was adamant; "You do not vote," quoth he,- "My orders say to Florida to see what I can see."
He took his leave of Isabelle and promised soon return; She sobbed aloud, disconsolate; her heart with grief did burn. Six hundred of this little band, some wearing coats of mail, A lot of horses. pigs and food, but not a wife set sail.
Interpreters there were a few, some priests and sailor men, A doctor, prophet and a wag to cheer them now and then; The chroniclers formed quite a train, a cannoneer had piece To thunder through the country-side that red-skin war must cease.
Some muskets, lances, spears and shot they bore in proud array, A banner by DeSoto planned, fierce bloodhounds, meat and hay. In Florida they landed well, at Tampa, in a calm; DeSoto lifted up his voice, the chorus sang a psalm.
From inland quite a distance came Juan Ortiz, Spanish lad, Left with the savage years before by Narvaez the Bad. Ten Indians with Juan were took by Baltasar and men, To camp brought in that they might guide DeSoto through the fen.
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MISCELLANEOUS-POETRY
Before the troop began its march from Tampa up the coast, DeSoto sent a lengthy note to Santiago host Of townsmen and their magistrate to tell them how he lit, But loving news to Isabelle he failed to send a bit.
Now, lots of fights DeSoto had with red-skins bold and gory, His exploits made his little band far-famed in song and story. He came to Cutifachiqui, Savannah River city,
And how he grubbed in sepulchres-Egad, it was a pity!
The Princess Cuti gave him drink, a regal string of pearls, Threw up a piny barricade around the tribal girls; Then handed Ferd his feathered hat, and prayed he would not hurry; "If I could think YOU would not go," said Ferdie, "I should worry!"
So saying Ferd put tenderly iron band upon her neck; "I guess we'll travel safely now or all bite dust, by heck!" He let her bear a box of gems, not wishing to be rude, And planned to get them when she left-with tale of solitude.
But Cutifachiqui was wise, and wisely built, was good; She took the pearls and Soto's ring, escaped into the wood; Poor Ferd could ill have turned around to chase her in the night; He thought of 'Bella's sacrifice, but still he didn't write.
Nacoochee Valley broke ahead, Gray Yonah called them on, Lorenzo, Soto's cavalier, went searching after corn, But found fair Echoee, the wife of savage Chief Tee-halp, Who hacked Lorenzo on the bean and snipt Garillo's scalp.
"All roads from here," the chief did grunt, "lead o'er the hills to Rome!" "That's Eldorado!" Soto cried. "Let's find our happy home!" Meanwile, glum Isabella wept, her grief she did confess, And would have writ a lot except for Ferdie's vague address.
Chiaha, site of Rome, was reached by dashing Soto's men; They found a lot of salty dope for Gent of Elvas' pen.
Pearl hunt along the Coosa took with forty red-skins brave, Louis Bravo shot old Mateos at entrance to the cave.
Silvestre, Villalobos fared to Chisca, seeking gold; They stalked back in a week or so, in rags, downcast and cold. When Soto asked for 30 squaws to join his hapless band, The chief wrote out a double cross on Oostanaula sand.
Away they trudged to Cosa next-no Eldorado found, But poisoned dart of Cherokee put Spaniards in the ground. Strong heart kept Soto on the mark to cop the king some dough; Neglected 'Bella languished still a thousand miles below.
At last DeSoto crossed a stream full dark and deep and wide, And with the fever in his blood one day he up and died; His bones found welcome resting place beneath the waters cold, But never did he sip content from Midas' cup of gold.
The faithful Isabella, too, explored the other shore With broken heart still full of love for Soto evermore. Quite possibly both might have lived a hundred years and nine, If Soto in his frenzied quest had penned her just a line!
OH' - WHY DOESN'T HE WRITE? HE MIGHT AT LEAST SEND ME A POST CARD OF THE ROME COURT HOUSE !
568
A HISTORY OF ROME AND FLOYD COUNTY
ROME IN 1934-A DREAM.
Oh, noble Roman, let us trip to good year Thirty-four, Which witnesseth 100 years have gone on here before, Since Rome became a husky babe and now is called a town; Up goes the curtain on a scene of passing great renown:
One hundred thousand folks there be and happily reside For quite a distance 'round the clock within our limits wide; Fair Chattanooga keeps an eye on Rome's expanding chest, Atlanta girds her loins to fight, and so do all the rest.
In every ward we have a park where children play and grow Red-blooded life is everywhere: the folks aren't dying so! The sexton's looking for a job as keeper of the log That tells how Romans live and love but slip no mortal cog.
The city swimming pool is built, the market owns its home; Things generally are looking up in ancient modern Rome! Around for miles is boulevard that hits the mountain tops And jumps the rivers seven times-Egad, it never stops !
The Berry School has built a shaft to doughty Cherokee Consisting of a model course in beads and basketry; And Shorter College now has oaks instead of trees austere, Which give the scholars welcome shade and make them dream while here.
The little czars that reigned in state on seven hills of yore Are chumming with the rest of us: they're haughty nevermore! The schools are adequate at last and every child is in; Miss Spain yells through a megaphone and Langley sees them win.
The Fair is run by Mr. Bush and mighty Fair it seems; The aeroplanes are hauling freight, the sun looks down and beams. The river banks have had a shave, mosquitoes gone from here, All undesirables have quit; the bootleg sheds a tear.
John Berry in the suburbs lives-he's moved his plant to Wax, His hosiery is still the rage-to Rome he pays his tax. Judge Wright has gone to Washington to get some things for Rome; The farmers keep on digging deep in Floyd County's loam.
The President and Cabinet on Lavender have perch; They ponder o'er the nation's weal, and come to Rome to church. The diplomats of other lands troop here with open purse, The shark of yesterday has left, some other field to curse.
And how has Rome attained to this-by finding pot of gold In Alto's top or miser's hoard or anything of old? Ah, no, my friend, the Rome we love received belated start By tapping of the gold that lies in every Roman heart!
LOVE'S KISS THE SWEETEST. By Phil Glenn Byrd in The Hustler of Rome, Jan. 15, 1895.
The pure kiss of friendship that falls from the lips Of a girl is as precious as gems of the realm. Like the signals exchanged in the passing of ships; "All is well. There's no fear, for a man's at the helm!"
But when the caress kindles passion's wild fire, There is danger ahead, there's the squall and the reef In the waters forbidden, 'round the Isle of Desire, And the craft that would land is indeed doomed to grief.
Yet the best of them all is the clinging caress, When a soul meets a soul and in lover-like bliss, In the language of eyes plight the truth they confess, As they seal the sweet vows in a Love's deathless kiss!
4
L
Dane, S, Printufo 4
570
A HISTORY OF ROME AND FLOYD COUNTY
PSYCHE'S MIRROR AT ROME. (Now Turn the Book Upside Down.)
THE RIVERS OF CHEROKEE GEORGIA. By Ernest Neal.
Have you heard of the land of the Cherokees, With its wonderful streams and beautiful trees, Of its flowers abloom and the wild perfume That floated like myrrh on the evening breeze?
Have you heard of Echota, the capital town, And the brave old chief with feathery crown? Of the warrior band and the pow-wow grand, In the light of the moon when the sun went down?
Far away in the past this quaint land lies, And around it the mists obscure arise; It is only in dreams we hear shrill screams Of the eagles afloat in their native skies.
But the rivers glide on in rhythmical flow Through fields of today that grew maize long ago. The slow Connasauga, the clear Oostanaula- Like their musical names-gurgle soft and low.
In the laugh of the ripples of sweet Salacoa, In the fall of the current of silvery Toccoa, In the roar of Tallulah and the splash of Yahoola Are the weird and sad notes of an unwritten lore.
And we list to the song of the sad Etowah- In his voice is a sob, a refrain from afar- While the rough Chattahoochee makes love to Nachooochee In the shade of the vale of the Evening Star.
From the gold-bearing mountains comes rich Chestatee Through the vales to the west flows Coosawattee; In their music shall roll the Indian soul As long as his rivers flow into the sea!
571
MISCELLANEOUS-POETRY
SUBMERGENCE OF THE SHORTER "PERISCOPE." (From The Rome News, Jan. 9, 1921.)
Two months ago The Periscope for Shorter girls was full of dope, ground out by Senior Class so wise, concerning pretty hills and skies, philosophy on how to live, study, work and gladly give; replete with health and beauty hints, fine art in rouge and fleshy tints, and brimming o'er with snappy ads and warnings not to break their Dads.
Alas; though Periscopes may skim the placid seas of joy and whim, they also now and then submerge (hark to the Seniors' mournful dirge!); and this one truly dropped from sight completely as it could one night. The reason why; the censor took a more than friendly, passing look at what the Seniors wished to tell within that periscopean shell, and so the sad-eyed Seniors swore of Periscopes they'd have no more.
Alumnae now will try their hand to make subscribers understand just why for such a lengthy time they've missed their prose and jokes and rhyme. Eventually the Freshmen brave will take the helm and try to save this pleasing vehicle the fate of steaming deep and slow and late. The teachers long ago have fled to tall uncut with aching head, lest torpedo should hit His Nibs between his first and second ribs. In dreams we hear the Freshmen shout as censor tries to cut it out:
"Please buy the verdant Periscope and get the latest Shorter dope!"
THE UNBECKONED HEART. By Montgomery M. Folsom. (From Tribune, Nov. 15, 1896.)
Convinced at last, and I have striven so long To win and keep you, all my powers of song And sentiment and pure ideals, too, Have I exerted, sweetheart, just for you.
Sweetheart! Ah! did I use that sacred word? 'Tis long, so long, ah me! since I have heard From those dear lips the thrilling accents sweet That gladdest echoes in my heart repeat!
I will not chide you. I have learned to bear Through long gray days of deepening despair The burdens of indifference and wrong,- The faith once placed in you has made me strong!
This is the last remonstrance I shall make Who sacrificed so much; my heart may ache But though my love and labor all are vain, For your dear sake I'd do as much again!
"T'is sad to be deceived, I must confess, And yet I love you in my loneliness ! 'Twas not ephemeral, this love of mine, But lasting as eternity divine!
The chords are mute you woke within my soul. And ne'er again shall those sweet dream bells toll; To you I gave my full heart harvest store,- And fallow shall it stay forever more!
THE JAYBIRD'S RETORT. (An old jingle sung by small boys in 1895.) Jaybird sittin' on a hickory limb,- He winked at me and I winked at him; Picked up a rock and hit him on the chin; He said, "Little boy, don't you do that again!"
572
A HISTORY OF ROME AND FLOYD COUNTY
POVERTY HALL (Southwest Corner of Third Avenue and E. First Street.)
THE POVERTY HALL BOYS.
Oh, who does not with joy recall The noble boys of Poverty Hall, Full panoplied in manly pride, With naught but poverty to hide?
Theirs not to dodge the sheriff's men, Theirs but to say, "Please call again!" Theirs but to pluck a summer rose, And go the way the lover goes!
Oh, time will bless them every one, As maids in every clime have done! High up or with no funds at all,- Heroic knights of Poverty Hall!
THE WEALTH OF POVERTY HALL Oh, how can time or weather dim The glory and the joy of him Who lived in Poverty Hall? Full courtly, kind, immaculate, With many dates, and never late, Though pressed against the wall!
A red carnation in his coat, A thousand letters fondly wrote,- Perfumed his handkerchief; Fared bravely forth as moon shone bright, With banjo tunes lost in the night, And often came to grief!
His plaint he piped into her ear,- Forsooth, she showed a little fear,- At party or at ball;
"Fair maid of Rome, please take my life, My everything,-just be my wife,- And live in Poverty Hall!"
Some maids succumbed and some did not,
Love lingered on; the chase was hot, And many took a fall;
Great in the present be the men Who hoped and fought and perished then
As the Boys of Poverty Hall!
Twenty-one of the original Poverty Hall boys, as recalled by one of the sur- vivors: Jas. Creswell Sproull, B. Tolly Haynes, William L. McKee, Jas. Neph- ew King, Harry P. Weatherly, Samuel L. Crook, Ellery A. Johnson, C. S. ("Tap") Sparks, William A. McGhee, Samuel S. King, Harry Page Johnson, Wade Cothran Sproull, Hunter H. Mc- Clure, Claude B. Hargrove, Fleetwood Lester, Morton R. Emmons, Edward S. Emmons, Charles N. Patterson, Craw- ford W. Wingfield, Nat Trout, and George McManigal.
LYRIC OF THE OOSTANAULA. (June 1, 1921.)
June trips in quite blithesomely, Speckled trout is king, Lads are bathing in the creeks,- What a heap to bring!
Hurry. hurry, carpenter,- Speed our craft along! Let the heavy winter hearts Sing our boating song!
574
A HISTORY OF ROME AND FLOYD COUNTY
ROME. By Montgomery M. Folsom.
Guarded by thy mighty mountains Softly toned by sun and shade, Watered in thy flowing fountains Flashing through each glen and glade Twined amid thy winding rivers, Mirrored by their shining foam, Where thy glowing splendor quivers, Standest thou, imperial Rome!
Pictured plains and verdant valleys Flushed with glorious harvest hopes, Blithe the balmy breeze that dallies On thy bloom-embroidered slopes; Opulent with promise springing From the freshly-furrowed loam, Jubilant the joy bells ringing On thy hills, resplendent Rome!
Other lands may boast their trophies, Vacuous vagaries of art,
Nature needs no straining strophes To reveal thy golden heart; And indelibly recorded In each love-illumined tome, Free from every instinct sordid Shines thy story, radiant Rome!
Fertile fields and frowsy fallows, Breezy banks where violets blow,
JACK D. M'CARTNEY, of Savannah, whose lyrics and journalistic quips entertained Ro- mans for more than a decade.
Fragrant flags and musky mallows Framed in drowsy deeps below; Shadowy woodlands, history haunted, Where each fancied nymph and gnome Long thy varied charms have daunted, Rome, incomparable Rome!
There may each wayfaring stranger, Free as falls the summer dew Menaced by no dread or danger, Find a welcome warm and true; Free to share in all thy treasures And to find in thee a home, Peace pursue and plenteous pleasures In thy precincts, prosperous Rome!
Sturdy sons and star-eyed daughters Blend their songs of hope and joy, Sweet as sound of falling waters Busied with each sweet employ; Peace and plenty reign around thee, Potent progress gilds each dome Where thy stalwart sons have crowned thee Realmed in riches, regal Rome!
LOWLAND PHILOSOPHY. By The Canoe Man. (From The Rome News, Feb. 10, 1921; inspired by the high water.) Said the sage, "You can't have rivers three That wind in silver threads, Without some water now and then That leaves the river beds!"
Said the Roman of the lowland sweep, "When freshets come,-who cares? We simply shut the front door fast And move our things upstairs!"
BRICK, BRICK, BRICK!
Brick, brick, brick On thy warm gray landscape, Rome, And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts of the ideal home!
O, well for the fisherman's boy And well for the shop-keeper's, too, O, well for the man who doesn't care But not so well for YOU!
And the motor boats go on To their cozy mooring place, But O, for the touch of an artist's hand On this God-given place!
Brick, brick, brick On Broad and highest hill, But the tender grace of a load of stone May come to soothe us still !
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SAVI
W CURRY
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THE PALMY DAYS OF THE VOLUNTEER FIRE DEPARTMENT.
When Rome was without funds to maintain a paid organization, many of her best citizens enlisted for hand reel duty. These pictures, believed to have been taken about 1890, show the regalia on "tournament day" scene, Broad Street and Second Avenue, before the shade trees were cut. The tournaments were held on Broad, and Rome's competitors were usually Anniston and Gadsden. In the bottom snap, left to right, are Arthur M. Word, chief; second, Prof. J. C. Harris; third, Henry Stoffregen; fifth, Wm. W. Seay, and sixth, Wm. J. Griffin.
MISCELLANEOUS-POETRY
575
576
A HISTORY OF ROME AND FLOYD COUNTY
HOUSE PARTY DAYS AT POPE'S FERRY.
A group at the Troutman place, on the Oostanaula, which includes Rev. and Mrs. Marcellus L. Troutman, Henry, Baldwin and Grace Troutman, Mrs. Mary B. King, Linton C. Hopkins and Miss Maggie Foote, of Atlanta, and the Lustrat girls of Athens, formerly of Rome. The dwelling was destroyed by fire in 1921.
LITTLE HANDS THAT MOTHER LOVES. By Frank L. Stanton.
Little hands whose work is o'er, Tired hands that toil no more,
Tender little hands that rest Folded on the sinless breast- Bending o'er them mother stands, Kisses still these little hands.
God, who ever does the best, Crossed them there and bade them rest, Would He then these hands condemn With a mother's kiss on them
When they've crossed the burning sands ? Mother loved those little hands!
Mother loved them in the past, Mother's kiss was on them last; Little hands, beneath the sod, Take a mother's kiss to God! Waft it o'er the troubled lands,- Little snow-white angel hands!
CAPTIVE WATER LILIES. Montgomery M. Folsom (In The Rome Tribune Nov. 7, 1896.) Wide eyed and golden hearted Ye peep through lattice bars; Far from your sisters parted Spirits of stolen stars.
Not where the soft waves tumble Along the marshy glen; But near the roar and rumble And hurrying feet of men.
Born where the rushes bending To hear the reed birds sing;
Where wayward winds are wending The heron plumes her wing.
Your heavenly kin half hiding Peep at the blushing dawn; When the Lord of day comes striding Through crimson curtains drawn.
How can ye bloom so blithely Amid this groan and grind? How can you float so lithely In this cold close confined?
No humming birds shall kiss you On flashing wings aglide; The western winds will miss you When falls the eventide. Pale prisoners ! In wonder Ye gaze through darkened bars From life and light asunder; Wan wraiths of fallen stars!
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